


The Cottage By The Lake

by Vaysh



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Hydra Steve Rogers, M/M, Sentient Cottage, Sweet Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23907739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: The Captain brings a guest to his cottage by the lake. The Cottage has a few choice words to say about that.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38
Collections: Stucky Remix 2020





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chim/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hydra's cottage for confused supersoldiers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654015) by [Chim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chim/pseuds/Chim). 



> Chim! It has been so much fun to spend the last weeks in your Cottage for Confused Supersoldiers. I found it has a very unique personality. ;) I am not yet done with the story, but the Stucky Remix mods were so kind to let me post this as a WIP. The story is on a bit of a hiatus because of RL right now but the last two chapters will be posted in ~~August~~ October. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

The Captain was back. 

Tall, blond, wearing shorts. Casual white shorts with blue stripes. They looked downright... _comfortable_. 

The Cottage heaved a heavy sigh that made its blue shutters squeak on their hinges. The Captain was its owner. The Cottage liked its owners in dark, pin-striped suits. It liked them in expensive Italian shoes. Glasses, the Cottage really liked men with glasses, thin, steel-rimmed spectacles. It liked a sharp mind, an expensive education, the subtle air of enormous wealth. And power. The Cottage liked powerful men. 

Last time, the Captain had had the decency to wear a formal suit. Old-fashioned, clearly seldom worn, but tailor-made. The Cottage had been impressed for two full seconds, until it realized ready-made suits just wouldn't fit the Captain. Too wide in the shoulders, his waist too thin. The whole man was too _perfect_ , physically perfect. All body, small mind. And something was wrong with his heart. The Cottage couldn't quite put its finger on it, but there was _something_. At least the Captain was with Hydra. 

He had bought the Cottage three years ago. Since then, he had spent exactly four nights here. His absence suited the Cottage well. You couldn't tell by its cozy looks, but it was a Hydra safe house – a base of operations used to hide fugitives, to mastermind nefarious plans, and to occasionally get rid of a body or two. The Captain had bought it from a soft-spoken, grey-haired gentleman who fronted for Jacob Veech. They had decided on a price the Cottage deemed not nearly adequate. But the sale was done on orders of Director Pierce. The Cottage's shutters fluttered appreciatively. Now, there was a man to its tastes. 

What was the Captain even wearing? A black t-shirt did not go with white shorts. Everybody knew that you never wear darker colors on top. And he brought a duffle bag, for God's sake! Didn't anyone use classic black leather suitcases anymore? The Cottage contemplated dropping a wooden shingle on the Captain's foot. But he was wearing _Birkenstocks_ , and the Cottage just couldn't bear the sight.

It felt the Captain patting its front door.

"Nice, mh?" he said, and quite against its will, the Cottage melted a bit at the sound of the Captain's soft voice.

It was a nice door, oak with a white paint coat, a small window and a letter-slot. The very first owner, long before Hydra, had planted a bush of pink roses on one side. Now the roses were even taller than the Captain, and one large branch hung above the Soldier, who looked confused and didn't say a word in reply.

The Cottage knew of him, of course. The Winter Soldier was a legend within Hydra. But it had never seen him, and frankly, it was not impressed. What was up with his hair? It clearly hadn't been cut in ages, and _someone_ had gathered it up in a small bun. The Cottage wanted to roll its eyes. The Soldier didn't look so terrifying and fearsome with a band-aid on his nose and a greasy lock of hair falling into his face. But the Captain gave him a broad smile as he opened the door, and there it was again – the thing that was not quite right with the Captain's heart.

The two men brought in another duffel bag from the car and, thankfully, a suitcase looking respectable enough. It did seem as if the Captain and his guest, the Soldier, meant to stay longer than four nights. The Cottage inwardly sighed. In a week, a hostage exchange was supposed to take place on its premises. It said so on the old calendar on its fridge. Hydra prided itself on its ruthless efficiency. But the Cottage had seen many plans go wrong. Thankfully, when the Captain and the Soldier had crossed the threshold, they had triggered the infrared detection beam. As they dropped their bags on its beautiful wooden floor, the Cottage's surveillance system was coming alive.


	2. The Tour

"Come, I'll give you the tour," the Captain said. 

He left the duffle bag on the polished floor, exactly where he had dropped it when the two of them had come inside. The Cottage's floorboards creaked in frustration. It had been looking forward to a nice, quiet day, dealing with the hostage Baron von Strucker had left hidden in the basement. It had planned to darken what little light came through the tiny basement window. The air down there was still too fresh, the folded cot too soft, the blankets too warm, the food (peas and peaches) too tasty. The Cottage had work to do, so the hostage was well-prepared when she was exchanged for a Hydra operative who had had the bad luck to fall into SHIELD's hands.

But no. Now the Cottage had to clean after those two idiots. And it had to check on them. The Soldier was already staring at the calendar on the fridge – staring way too long for the Cottage's taste.

"This calendar is from 2009," the Soldier stated.

The Captain simply waved his large hand. "We'll get a new one, next time we go into town."

"Into town," the Soldier repeated.

"For shopping," the Captain replied, and the Cottage could tell he was putting on a smile for the Soldier's sake. For clearly the Soldier was not quite right in the head. 

"Shopping," the Soldier said, sounding like a sad parrot.

The Cottage had seen this before. Men like Director Pierce, men like Baron von Strucker – such powerful men sometimes had to use powerful means to subdue those who did not follow their orders willingly. And while the Cottage in general approved, it could not help feel a bit sorry for the Soldier. He was a great asset, one of the most successful assassins Hydra had had in its employ in nearly a century. It was not right to treat such a useful asset the way Director Pierce did.

The Captain seemed to harbor similar thoughts because he simply nodded, put a hand on the Soldier's arm and steered them into the bedroom to the right.

The _tour_ started. It took no longer than five minutes – it was a small cottage, after all, if you didn't visit the basement. But the smidgeon of sympathy the Cottage had felt towards the Soldier was thoroughly quenched as the two men were tromping from room to room.

Take the master bedroom. The Soldier stood on the threshold of the large, sun-lit space and stared at it with furrowed brows. The room looked out onto the lake, the wooden dock half-hidden behind a picturesque patch of reeds. A forest of deciduous trees surrounded the lake, painting the water in light silver-green hues. It was a lovely view, and the Cottage was very proud of it. The bedroom itself had a king-sized bed, with fresh white linen and duvet and a hand-knit quilt in warm, earthy tones. A desk, a chest of drawers, nightstands and a wardrobe, all crafted from bright wood, completed the room. 

"The master bedroom," the Captain said. "You're welcome to sleep here."

The Soldier just stared. He didn't nod; he didn't say a word in reply. He did, however, enter the room with cautious steps. He kept away from the window and never even ventured a look outside. Instead he kept glancing at the carved headboard, the art nouveau lamps, the curtains hung with textile grommets. All the places, the Cottage was reluctant to admit, where the surveillance equipment was expertly hidden.

"Wanna see the rest of the house?" A tone of disappointment crept into the Captain's voice. He seemed at a loss about how to coax a reaction from the Soldier. And as he stood there, radiant within a sunny spot but his shoulders slumped, the Cottage couldn't help feel sorry for him. He was trying so hard to make the Soldier feel welcome and at ease. 

The Soldier clearly understood that something other than a stare and a furrowed brow was required from him. His face changed as he nodded, "Sure." It might have been the sun but for the first time the Cottage noticed the brilliant blue of his eyes. The expression on his face bordered on an actual smile.

The Captain noticed, too. His right eyelid did a _thing_ , like a hopeful blink, and he grinned and left the room with a spring to his step. The Soldier stared after him, a look of _haunted trepidation_ on his face. There was no other word for it. But he shook it off and turned his gaze back to room. One last check on headboard, lamps, curtain hangings and damn! He even lingered on the light-switches, all three of them. The Cottage was so fucked!

"I'm out here on the dock," the Captain called.

And finally, _finally_ , the Soldier left the room.


	3. The Basement

The thing was, buildings didn't sleep. The Cottage had never seen one of those fabled skyscrapers in the big cities. But it was sure they didn't sleep either. The old phone booth over at the highway, right where the gravel road turned off towards the Cottage – it never slept. There were nights when it kept ringing incessantly. 

But in the deep of the night, nothing out there but stars and the occasional dreamy chirp of a bird, the Cottage would fall into a comfortable snooze. Never very deep, never sleep like humans knew it. But it cherished these naps. They were relaxing and refreshing and it loved its bit of shut-down time.

Which was why the Cottage was less than pleased when it was rudely woken up by the godawful creaking of the cellar door. The lack of regular maintenance was one of the drawbacks of being a Hydra safe-house. The Cottage could do some things on its own, a bit of cleaning, a bit of airing. But it couldn't lubricate rusty hinges if there was no lubricant in the house. And not many people knew about the basement. The door was hidden behind the kitchen cupboard. The Cottage didn't think the Captain knew of the existence of the cellar door, let alone of the existence of the basement.

The basement with its weapons cache, its supplies of money, drugs and gear. Its fine little torture chamber. Its cold room for bodies that needed disappearing. Three prisoners could be easily accommodated in the Cottage's three soundproof cells. There was enough canned food so they wouldn't starve to death until Baron von Strucker or Director Pierce were ready to deal with them. The Cottage was especially proud of the cells' ensuite sanitary facilities.

It had no idea how the Soldier knew about its secret basement. He had never been here; the Cottage was absolutely sure of it. 

But he knew. Why else would he have moved the kitchen cupboard? So quietly, too, that if not for the creaking of the cellar door, the Cottage would still be dozing. As the Soldier went down the stairs, the Cottage noticed something else: it had no eyes. Well, of course it still could _see_ all that was going on inside of it. It didn't need eyes for _that_. But it couldn't access the surveillance feeds. Or rather, the surveillance feeds were dead. Nothing. No view of the moon-lit front door. No shadowy outlines of the kitchen, no image of the sleeping form of the Captain in the master bedroom. Not even the cameras on the back, overlooking the deck and lake, were working.

Fuck.

The Cottage couldn't help be just a little bit impressed. It shouldn't have underestimated the Soldier. You didn't gain a reputation as the deadliest assassin of the 20th century for nothing. Not in an organization like Hydra that had many assassins in its employ, but none as good as the Winter Soldier.

He had destroyed the surveillance equipment. The Cottage felt around, and yes, all the cameras were gone, even the ones in the bedroom where the Captain slept. After some digging around, the Cottage discovered two dozens of crushed, state-of-the-art surveillance devices in the waste bin in the kitchen. It was the moment when it realized its ears were gone, too. Not that it needed microphones to hear. But Director Pierce would be furious.

Meanwhile the Soldier had found the prisoner in the cell. Oh boy!

Only Baron von Strucker knew the code to the door of the cell. But the Soldier had it open within minutes. The Cottage had no idea how he'd done it – he'd obviously undergone some special Hydra locksmith training. The Soldier stepped into the cell, turned on the light and took in the rows of empty cans. Only the labels betrayed that they had once contained peas and peach halves in syrup. Not, the Cottage was the first to admit, what you would call a balanced diet. But Hydra was stingy when it came to its prisoners. 

The toilet was clean enough. Still, after three weeks down here, in the same set of clothes without as much as shampoo or soap, the prisoner's human smells were... grating, to say the least. Even the Soldier wrinkled his nose. 

The flickering light revealed the prisoner – a red-haired woman, small, muscled. She had retreated into a corner, with her back to the wall. Her ankles were bound with an iron chain, so that she could only make very small steps. When the Soldier stepped into the light, she gasped.

"James," she said, voice very low. 

Interesting. So the Soldier had a name, a respectable one even. _James._ And the prisoner knew him.

The Cottage hadn't really listened to what Strucker and his minions had talked about when they had brought in the prisoner. Something about a defector from Russia; something about SHIELD, the resistance movement working from the underground.

The Soldier stood motionless, brow furrowed, as usual, staring, as usual.

"Soldat?“ the prisoner asked. In Russian.

The Cottage had never heard about the Soldier speaking Russian, and with the Captain he had certainly conversed fluently enough in English. _If_ you wanted to call mono-syllables fluent.

But the Russian word did something to him. He flinched and shook his head, like a dog. And he stepped forward, out of the circle of light, towards the prisoner. She did not even shrink back against the wall. She waited and watched as the Soldier approached. The Cottage couldn't be quite sure – it needed better light down here! – but they seemed to exchange a _look_ before the Soldier got to his knees and worked on the short chain around the prisoner's ankles.

He did have that metal arm. Still, it should have taken him much longer than five seconds to free the prisoner. The Cottage could not help a faint shiver move through its stones. Baron von Strucker was known for his fits of rage if things did not go as planned. The Cottage had proven its worth in the past. But it could be torn down in a matter of hours. A few years ago there had stood another cottage further down the gravel road. One morning, after a police raid, it was simply gone. Nothing left but a pile of stones.

The Cottage watched with some trepidation as the prisoner rushed to the cell door and stepped out into the dank corridor. There she stopped and turned back to the Soldier. 

"I won't forget," she said, voice pitched very low.

She climbed outside through a broken window in the storage room. The Soldier did nothing, of course. The Cottage tried to hold her back, blowing a tangle of spider-webs into her face. She brushed them away, slipped through the window and vanished into the night. No doubt she would walk to the phone booth and call her friends from SHIELD to pick her up. This phone-booth! Now there was an object that needed tearing down. Who'd even put a phone booth out here, in the middle of nowhere? The Cottage had a perfect cover – its quaint, rose-bushed facade, the quiet lake in the woods. But now this woman knew what it really was; she knew about the basement. The Cottage's cover was blown.

Another shiver of fear ran through the old stones of its basement walls. 

The Soldier was still staring after the prisoner. "Natalia," he whispered into the night.


	4. The Pile of Stones

"We'll try out being civilians together," the Captain had said to the Soldier after their tour of the Cottage.

 _Ha_ , the Cottage had thought, and "Ha," it was saying now, only it came out as a loud bang when it slammed shut the bedroom door.

The Captain, who was sitting on the dock, almost jumped out of his skin. He was clad in very tight swimming trunks and not much else: a towel around his broad shoulders, so he didn't burn his rosy skin. Since breakfast he'd been reading an old Tom Clancy novel. 

"Everything all right?" he called out to the Soldier who sat in the living room, an assortment of guns, rifles and knives spread out before him.

"Just the door," he replied, sounding much livelier today. He looked content, which might have to do with the pancakes the Captain had made for breakfast. The Cottage still smelled wonderfully of butter, sugar and strawberries.

"Wanna spar for a couple of rounds?" the Captain yelled from the dock. 

The Soldier immediately dropped the knife he'd been sharpening and joined the Captain outside. On the well-manicured lawn between the Cottage and the dock, they fought for – literally – hours. Attack, defense, attack, defense, grapple, push, slam, duck, hit, evade, hit again and on and on and on.

The Cottage much preferred gunshots. Or if there was a need for silence, stabbing with a knife.

When they finally went back inside, the lawn was a mess – squished patches of grass and spots of raw dirt everywhere. A bed of poppies and beautiful pink cosmos had been destroyed when the Soldier had pushed the Captain into it and pinned him to the ground. It would take _months_ for the Cottage to restore the garden.

But the real damage was done elsewhere – namely, in the living room. There, the Soldier had done much more than simply clean his own and the Captain's guns. 

He had brought up the weapons from the basement, one armful after another. He'd been very secretive about it, moving the kitchen cupboard back and forth so the Captain wouldn't notice. Then he had sat on the couch, dissembling guns, grenades and rifles into their tiniest parts. He had broken all the knives. The ammunition he'd crushed with his metal hand. He didn't even need many other tools – he made do with a screwdriver and a set of wrenches he'd found under the kitchen sink.

This went on for days. The Captain would wake the Soldier at break of dawn. They would run around the forest like soldiers in wartime training. Then a hearty breakfast, then reading for the Captain, weapons destruction for the Soldier, then a mouth-watering lunch followed by rounds and rounds of sparring.

A week into this so-called _civilian_ life, the garden looked like a grazing field for sheep. The basement was cleared of all weapons. The torture chamber with its torture chair and the many torture instruments had been turned into a – well, it had been a storage room before. Cool dirt floor, walls made from natural stones. After the Soldier had ruined and broken everything in it, he stacked the empty fruit cans against the wall. The Cottage even helped, quite against its will, by drying out the wet spots and make the blood seep away into the ground. It cracked the small window open during the night, and when the Soldier returned the next morning, the stench was gone and the room smelled of nothing but earth. 

"Odd," the Captain remarked one morning when they returned from their pre-dawn run. "I don't remember this pile of stones being so high."

They came up to the Cottage from gravel road, approaching its back side, the one facing away from the lake. There was no lawn here, just a strip of grass running along the hedge marking the property line. Previous owners had dumped building materials here. A stack of old roofing shingles, half overgrown with moss. Leftover boards from when the new wood flooring had been laid. And a pile of stones. It was not the most beautiful sight of the Cottage's exterior, but then, it was its weather side. 

The Captain had a good eye. At the time of their arrival, the pile of stones had not nearly been so high. Now it almost reached the bathroom window.

The Soldier said nothing. He kept jogging towards the Cottage's door, opened it and disappeared inside. With a shrug, the Captain followed him.

The Cottage wanted to roll its non-existent eyes. Night after night, the Soldier had buried what was left of the weapons underneath the stones. Now he had to find a better hiding-place. The Cottage couldn't talk; it couldn't simply walk away. But it could make a pile of stones collapse and reveal what was underneath. Only the Cottage wasn't sure how the Captain would react if he knew. What _would_ he do? He was no Baron von Strucker; he was no Director Pierce. Somehow, the Cottage knew that the Captain would not punish the Soldier for stripping it of everything that had made it one of the best safe-houses Hydra ever had. _Had_ had. As: in the past. 

The smell of fresh coffee filled the Cottage and soothed its growing fears. The two men sat at the kitchen table, hair still wet from the shower, and indulgence plainly written on the Captain's face. He kept up a conversation, and the Soldier nodded or occasionally uttered a single word. He didn't say much, this James, but he was much happier than when he'd arrived. 

And he was sneakier. Behind the Captain, on the fridge, hung a new calendar. They had brought it back from a shopping trip into town a few days ago. The Captain had circled the day of their arrival and written _Vacation_ beside it. Tomorrow was Tuesday, the day of the hostage exchange, even when it was no longer marked on the calendar. But freeing the hostage and buying a new calendar did not mean the whole thing was going away.

The Captain and Soldier ate their breakfast – eggs, hash browns and bacon, with golden toast. It smelled heavenly. The Cottage could let in even more sunlight; it could direct the fresh scents from the garden into the house. It could make the life of its two guests even more comfortable and _civilian_. But it didn't.

The Cottage's allegiance was with its owner. And its owner was Director Pierce. He would not be pleased to hear a hostage was gone from his favorite safe-house. He would like it even less if he heard this news from Baron von Strucker. Something had to be done. 

First, the Cottage slammed close the window in the Captain's bedroom. It was allowed to occasionally give vent to its feelings.

"What the –!" The Captain startled and almost dropped his coffee cup. 

"I get it." The Soldier was already up and closed the window with a darkly accusing look around the room.

Then the Cottage set off a silent alarm, broadcasting through the kitchen radio to the phone booth and from there to Washington DC. Within a second, the signal pinged back: alarm received. The Cottage's job was done. Now Director Pierce would take care of things.


	5. The Return

Baron von Strucker never showed up. In fact, nothing happened on the day of the planned hostage exchange – no delivery of another hostage, no search party in the basement cells. In fact, there were no visitors at all. The Cottage didn't even receive one little courtesy ping to let it know the exchange was off. 

Instead, Director Pierce called and ordered the Soldier on a mission. A _quick, little thing_ , as he put it.

Everybody would have been suspicious. The Cottage certainly was. If the red-haired woman had been Director Pierce's hostage, this _mission_ surely would have been punishment for her release. 

The Captain practically pleaded with the Soldier not to go. But the Soldier didn't budge. He wanted to please the Captain. And for some deluded reason he thought obedience to Director Pierce was what the Captain wanted from him. When everybody could see that what the Captain wanted was for the Soldier to be safe. Happy and safe.

It was a mess. 

And now the Soldier was gone and the Cottage had to deal with the Captain, who was restless, grumpy and generally in a bad mood. 

He tried to follow his usual routine. For lunch, he made creamy potato soup, with spring onions from the vegetable garden. Only, he went outside while the soup warmed up, walked briskly towards the lake, and then decided – at noon! – to go for a run. Without turning off the stove. 

The Cottage had a hell of a time dealing with the ensuing catastrophe. The overboiling soup spilled _everywhere_ – the burner, the cooktop, the kitchen floor. Luckily, it managed to cut off the gas before the pot or the stove ignited into flames. But the stench of the burned mixture of mashed potatoes, bacon and cheese was unbearable. 

"What the fuck happened here?" the Captain growled when he returned from his run, sweaty and, if possible, in even worse of a mood. 

He grabbed the pot and burned his hand. ”Goddamnit!" 

In a show of remarkable will power, he put the pot slowly and deliberately back onto the stove. The Cottage was impressed with the man – again. 

The Captain checked the gas tap and realized belatedly that _someone_ had already saved the house from burning to the ground. 

"Bless the automatic gas cut off," he mumbled and released a long breath. He sniffed, went around the house and closed the windows the Cottage had so helpfully opened to clear the air. 

Not a word of thanks, not the smallest gesture of gratitude. But the Cottage couldn't be cross with the Captain. It was plain as day that he was worried sick. After he'd closed the window in the Soldier's room, he sat down on the bed. For the longest time he only looked at the pillow. It was just a clean white pillow. There was no indentation from where the Soldier had put his head. There were no stray hairs the Soldier may have lost. And yet the Captain put his large hand onto the pillow and caressed it tenderly.

"If he doesn't come back," he murmured. "If Pierce gets him hurt again," he balled his hand into a fist, "I fucking kill him."

☆

Two days later, in the afternoon, the Soldier returned. It had been two long days and one even longer night. All this time the Cottage had been going back and forth about whether it had been wise to alarm Director Pierce.

Two Hydra agents brought the Soldier back. The Captain waited for them in front of the Cottage, large arms crossed before his chest. To say a cloud of violent rage hung above his head was not an exaggeration. The agents didn't look as if they volunteered for the delivery job.

The Soldier still wore his uniform; he carried a rifle on his metal arm. He was pale as death, and when the agents politely lead him from the van to the Cottage, he stumbled. There was something wrong with his right leg. And he stared at the Cottage and the lake like he had never seen it before.

Right then, the Cottage knew it had made a terrible, a _horrendous_ mistake. 

The Soldier had been _wiped._

"Go," the Captain said, one firm arm around the Soldier's shoulders. "Get out of my sight. And tell Pierce I don’t _appreciate_ his methods."

The Cottage held open the door for them; it raised the temperature inside by three degrees. The Soldier looked cold. The Cottage itself was in shock. It had never expected Director Pierce to use his methods on the Soldier _again_. Not after he'd so obediently gone on yet another mission.

The Captain _fumed_. He did it silently and only when he wasn't talking to the Soldier. But the whole house shook with how furious the Captain was. 

The Soldier just stood there. When the Captain told him to go to the bathroom, he didn't move until the Captain told him _where_ the bathroom was. There was no spark of recognition when they passed the kitchen and the other rooms. 

In the bathroom, the Captain went straight for the first-aid kit. He didn't see how the Soldier flinched at the sight of the white tiles and the showerhead. The Cottage let more sun in and added a rosy glow. The tiles shone with it, warm and inviting. The Soldier relaxed, his shoulders loosened and he stood more comfortable on the threshold until the Captain asked him in.

And there it was, the first sign that the Soldier did remember something: When his gaze fell on the large tub, he froze and then looked immediately to the right – exactly to the basket where the Cottage kept the soap: luxurious bars smelling of Japanese spearmint or British rose, of citrus, musk, lavender, you name it. The Soldier had been particularly fond of a special, strawberry-scented soap. 

He kept staring at the soap basket when the Captain asked, "Where are your wounds?" 

The following minutes were among the worst in the Cottage's life. The Soldier was badly hurt, and nobody had tended to his wounds in over twenty-four hours. The ichor and clotted blood looked awful. Yes, the Cottage had seen torture. It had even witnessed a murder or two. But it hadn't known these people. It hadn't seen them enjoy plums, swim in the lake or smile at a movie. It hadn't heard them scream from a nightmare. It hadn't lived with them for weeks and seen them learn to trust another person. 

As the Cottage watched the Captain take care of the Soldier, it couldn't help but feel ashamed. The Captain was a supersoldier, an expert at war. And yet here he was, cleaning the Soldier's wounded thigh so carefully, with the lightest of touch. Always making sure that the Soldier knew where he was going to be touched; always checking whether he was in pain. The Cottage had never seen a man touch another man so gently, so reverently before. 

It thought of the many prisoners it had housed, men and women and non-binary folk. The Cottage could have made their stay in its basement more comfortable. But it hadn't. It had taken its cue from Baron von Strucker and Director Pierce and made the pain they inflicted worse. The Cottage had let the prisoners rot in those dark cells when it could have brought them a bit of light and warmth.

Watching the two men in its bathroom, the Cottage felt something rise deep from its foundations – the relief of freshly-aired storage rooms, the satisfaction of a pyramid of empty cans stacked neatly against a wall. It felt grateful because the red-haired woman had got away. There was a sense of _rightness_ in its basement now – all well, all clear. And the Cottage realized it hadn't felt like this in years.

While the Cottage was having its existential crisis, the bathroom had fallen silent. No dripping faucets, and _of course_ the pipes didn't bang. Normally the Captain would be talking and the Soldier would give brief replies. But there was only the crinkle of plaster, the almost inaudible swish of the Captain dabbing ointment on the Soldier's skin. Nothing else. Only when the Cottage listened very closely, did it hear the Captain's breath. It came steady and calm, as if he meant to reassure the Soldier even with the rhythm of his breathing. 

The Soldier's breath came in irregular bursts. Through the rim of the tub the Cottage could feel him trembling. 

Why was he trembling?

"All patched up," the Captain said, voice warm and gentle. He put a hand on the Soldier's arm, then stepped back to put the first-aid kit away.

The Soldier sagged in relief. There was no other word for it. The second the Captain turned his back to him, he stopped trembling and started to breathe more normal again.

Why did he stop trembling when the Captain turned away?

The Cottage had no idea what was going on.


End file.
